THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


RHYMES  OF  OUR  VALLEY 


KHYMES  OF  OUR 
VALLEY 


BY 


ANTHONY  EUWER 

With  a  Frontispiece  and 

Decorations  by  the 

Author 


fork 
JAMES  B.  POND 
1916 

All  rights  rtitrvtd 


COPYRIGHT  1916 

BY  JAMES  B.  POND 

Published  September,  1916 


PS 


V 


TO 

THE  PEOPLE  OF 
THE  HOOD  RIVER  VALLEY 


602241 

LIBRARY 


For  the  privilege  of  using  some  of  the  rhymes  in 
"Rhymes  of  Our  Valley,"  the  author  wishes  to  thank 
COLLIER'S,  The  COUNTRY  GENTLEMAN,  LIFE, 
HARPER'S  WEEKLY,  The  WOMAN'S  HOME  COM 
PANION,  The  NATIONAL  SUNDAY  MAGAZINE, 
The  NEW  YORK  TIMES,  and  the  PHILADELPHIA 
NORTH  AMERICAN. 


OUR  VALLEY 

It  may  be  that  somewhere  in  this  wide,  wide 
world  there  is  a  more  beautiful  valley  than 
ours,  but  we  of  our  valley  do  not  think  so. 
Out  there  in  the  Oregon  country  it  lies,  land 
of  the  Columbia,  whose  towering  walls  have 
been  twisted  and  carved  into  moss-flecked  battle 
ments  and  cathedral  domes.  Centuries  ago,  if 
we  hark  to  the  Indian  legend,  the  beautiful 
stream  was  spanned  by  a  gigantic  archway  of 
stone.  It  was  called  The  Bridge  of  the  Gods. 
In  an  ill-starred  moment,  with  a  quaking  of 
the  earth,  it  fell  and  was  shattered  into  a  thou 
sand  fragments.  Where  it  fell,  the  river  rolls 
today,  tumbling  and  sprawling  over  scattered 
bulwarks  of  stone.  To  the  east  of  these  rapids, 
if  you  look  toward  the  South,  you  will  see 
thirty  miles  away  the  snowy  summit  of  Mount 
Hood  in  the  great  volcanic  chain  of  the  Cascades. 

From  mountain  to  river,  enfolded  in  its 
canyon  arms  of  Summer  green,  of  Autumn 
arabesque  or  Winter  snow,  lies  our  valley.  But 
yesterday  it  bristled  with  yellow  pine  and  fir, 
with  tamarac  and  cedar  and  chincapin,  with 
impenetrable  brush  of  maple,  sage  and  willow. 
Today  it  is  carpeted  with  rolling  acres  of  or- 

7 


chard  land,  with  berry-fields  and  little  homes 
with  rambling  roofs  and  big,  stone  chimneys. 

From  one  of  these  little  homes  you  will  see 
the  sun  in  the  early  morning,  guilding  the  dome 
of  Mount  Ranier,  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles 
to  the  North.  And  nearer  still,  but  sixty  miles 
away  with  snows  of  brighter  gold,  rises  Mount 
Adams,  its  cliffs  and  valleys  all  defined;  while 
seven  miles  of  upland  to  the  South,  gleam  the 
cold  white  snow-drifts  of  Mount  Hood,  looking 
so  near  you  could  take  them  in  a  leap. 

All  day  the  song  of  the  flume  is  in  the 
fields,  bearing  its  waters  down  from  the  glaciers 
and  giving  them  out  in  a  thousand  rills  to  the 
thirsty  earth.  It  is  the  antithesis  of  the  stream, 
the  flume,  for  it  gives  while  the  stream  gathers. 
It  is  the  artery,  the  stream  the  vein.  When  the 
day  is  done  the  great  winged  buzzards  drop 
silently  to  rest  upon  the  pine  tree  tops,  the  owl 
hoots  from  the  timber,  the  full  moon  swings 
above  the  eastern  range,  and  now  across  the 
clearing  and  over  yonder  on  the  hills,  you  hear 
the  coyotes  bark,  bark,  bark. 

And  this   is   our  valley,  our  valley  which 

gives    to   you    in    such    abundant   measure    its 

apples   of  crimson  and  gold;  valley   of  God's 

sunshine  and  shadow,  of  man's  smiles  and  tears. 

g 


CONTENTS 
RHYMES  OF  OUR  VALLEY 

THE  BLOOD  IN  THE  APPLE  13 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  AVERAGE  MAN  17 

AN  ORCHARD-MAN'S  WIFE  21 

KA-ICHI  24 

A  DRY  MOOLY  IN  STRAWBERRY  TIME  27 

OUR  NOO  VICTROLIE  29 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  WHITE  RAG  32 

THE  GAMBLERS  35 

WHEN  FRANCES  BRINGS  HER  VIOLIN  39 

THE  GHOSTS  OF  MULTNOMAH  41 

THE  BUZZARDS  44 

CEDRIC  46 

THE  LAST  STAND  48 

THE  GLOMERS  50 

WHEN  MOUNTAIN  STREAMS   ARE  WHITE 

WITH  SNOW  53 

DAYS  OF  THE  YEAR  54 

OBSERVATIONS  56 

PLAY-FELLOW  JOHN  59 

WHEN  THE  OUTSIDE  PIG  GETS  COLD  62 

TOPSY  CALF  65 

THE  LITTLE  RUNT  68 

OUR  MOLLY  COW  70 
9 


OUR  DOG  72 

MY  COUSIN'S  HOUSE  76 

WHEN  DAD  GETS  THE  GRUMPS  78 

CHORES  80 

THE  WAY  TO  BE  GOOD  82 

MY  GROUCH  84 

RHYMES  AND  LIMER  RHYMES 

THE  DOODLEDOO  86 

GETTIN'  BORN  87 

THE  SAW-FISH  88 

THE  FISH  89 

GOLDFISHES  90 

MY  FACE  92 

THE  CHIN  92 

THE  WAIST  93 

THE  HAIR  93 

THE  NECK  93 

LONGEVITY  93 

ECONOMY  94 

AGILITY  94 

VEGETARIAN  94 

A  LIMER-KICK  94 

FROM  THE  TURKISH  95 

PERSPECTIVE  95 

DON'T  95 

A  LIMER-LEAK  95 


THE  BLOOD  IN  THE  APPLE 

You  city  folk  who  night  and  day 

Loiter  and  stare  along  Broadway,, 

And  pausing  by  some  fruiterer's  shop, 

You  city  folk — do  you  ever  stop 

To  count  the  cost  of  those  radiant  wares, 

Spitzenburgs  lucious  and  Anjou  pears, 

Winter  Banana  and  Gravenstien, 

Crimson   and  gold   in   their  sun-washed  sheen? 

Winds  of  the  west  their  cheeks  have  fanned 

Down  endless  tracts  of  orchard  land, 

Each  nectar  drop  in  that  golden  feast 

Was  a  drop  of  sweat  from  man  and  beast, 

The  crimson  there  of  deep,  rich  hue 

Had  its  complement  in  years  of  blue — 

The  blue,  blue  awful  first  long  years 

Of  falt'ring  hopes  and  cank'ring  fears, 

Of  wond'ring  how  in  the  name  of  God 

You're  going  to  hold  your  piece  of  sod 

And  go  without  the  things  you  need 

And  pay  your  help  and  buy  your  feed, 

While  it  all  goes  out  and  there's  nothing  comes 

in, 

And  your  credit's  called  when  you're  minus  tin. 
'3 


You  city  folk,  that  fruit  you  see 
It  wasn't  by  chance,  you  take  it  from  me! 
Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  clear  your  copse 
And  fell  your  firs  with  a  gang  of  Wops, 
And  shoot  your  stumps  and  squatter  rocks 
With  dynamite  at  five  a  box, 
And  yank  your  roots  and  fill  your  holes 
And  drive  the  drag  to  level  the  rolls, 
While  the  dust  and  grime  go  filt'ring  in 
Each  leaky  pore  in  your  swelt'ring  skin, 
And  the  fir  bark  splinters  calmly  glide 
Through  the  holes  in  your  mits  to  your  hands 

inside 

Which  gives  you  something  to  blaspheme  at 
When  you've  chisled  the  pitch  from  your  hands 

with  "Scat"?* 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  you  city  folk, 
To  be  consecrate  to  the  ranchman's  yoke? 
To  wake  with  your  hands  all  cramped  and  sore 
From  the  clutch  on  your  ax  the  day  before, 
Then  crawl  into  the  icy  night 
Two  hours  before  you  glimpse  the  light, 
And  make  your  way  by  a  lantern's  glow 
Out  through  the  chill  and  driving  snow 
* A  soap-salve. 

14 


To  tend  and  feed  the  beasts  that  live 
By  grace  of  what  you  choose  to  give. 
Till  dawn  unfolds  familiar  lines 
Of  out-house  roofs  and  snow-clad  pines 
And  when  the  last  chore's  done  you  say 
You're  ready  now  to  start  the  day. 

Do  you  know  what   the  trees   have  weathered 

through 

That  bore  that  golden  fruit  for  you? 
Blight  and  mold,  the  dozen  plagues 
That  fly  with  wings  and  crawl  with  legs. 
Aphus,  Weavels — marshalled  in  hosts 
Along  each  bough  till  they  give  up  their  ghosts 
In  a  sulphur-lime  death-dealing  drench 
Or  a  Black-leaf  Forty's  choking  stench. 

Do  you  know  the  feel  to  find  a  tree 
That's  reached  a  three  year's  growth,  and  see 
Its  leaves  all  limp,  its  roots  out  clean — 
'Twas  gophered  there  in  the  ground  unseen. 
You  can  pull  it  out — no  need  to  jerk 
When  the  Gophers  quit  their  ghoulish  work. 
At  all  their  holes  your  traps  are  set 
And  some  you  miss  and  some  you  get, 
But  you  might  as  well  fish  up  the  sea 
»5 


As  trap  a  Gopher  colony, 

For  their  dead  have  fathers,  sisters,  brothers, 

Uncles,  aunts  and  hungry  mothers, 

And  every  one  of  the  cave-born  brutes 

Is  horribly  fond  of  apple-roots. 

When   they've  gophered  your  tree,  it's   gone, 

that's  all, 
You  just  forget  it  and  plant  next  fall. 

Eight-inch  dust  and  five-foot  snow, 

You  get  them  both  where  the  apples  grow, 

Toppling  hopes  and  cank'ring  fears 

To  boost  you  along  for  seven  years, 

Blight  and  plague  and  withering  frost — 

Just  reckon  these  when  you  count  the  cost 

Of  that  wonderful  fruit  you  saw  to-day 

As  you  stopped  by  the  window  along  Broadway. 


16 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  AVERAGE  MAN 

What's  that  you  say?     Am  I  going  back? 
Back — to  the  chaparral  and  the  tamarack? 
Why  the  very  fact  that  you  ask  it  shows 
You've  never  been  where  the  squaw  grass  grows, 
Where  the  fir  boughs  try  their  best  to  hide 
The  snowy  slopes  of  the  mountain  side, 
And  the   ghost   ridge  trees   all   ashen-white, 
Stretch  their  bony  arms  to  the  pale  moonlight. 

You  say  you've  read  of  the  lure,  the  spell — 
The  call  of  the  West  and  all  that— well, 
Then  here's  a  hope  that  the  good  God  may 
Show  you  the  truth  of  it  all  some  day. 
Like  the  tiger's  lust  for  the  blood  once  quaffed, 
Like   the    drunkard's    thirst    for    the   burning 

draught, 

Is  the  urge  that  tugs  in  your  beating  breast 
When  you've  turned  once  more  to  the  beck'ning 

West. 

But  mightier  still  than  its  clarion  call 

Is  the  walloping  bigness  of  it  all, 

And  you  live  the  days  when  your  eye  swept  clear 

From  the  slopes  of  Hood  to  old  Ranier. 

17 


Canyon  on  canyon — rock-ribbed  piles, 

Rolling  away  for  a  hundred  miles — 

And  the  gold  of  the  sunset  on  leaf  and  branch 

Crowding  your  soul  like  an  avalanche. 

And  you  want  to  say  something  to  someone  who 

Feels  it  and  loves  it  as  much  as  you ; 

Your  horse  tramps  on  at  the  close  of  day, 

There's  a  surge  in  your  heart  but  all  you  say 

Is  a  muttered  curse  as  you  kick  the  stone — 

"What  a  Hell  of  a  place  to  be  alone !" 

There's  a  brand  of  folk  who'd  rather  be 

Just  solitaires  in  immensity, 

Who'd  mortgage  the  rising  moon  until 

They'd  glutted  up  to  their  selfish  fill. 

But  the  soul,  I  think,  of  the  average  man 

Is  built  on  a  sort  of  a  limited  plan 

Which,  when  it's  tasked  to  the  over-much, 

It  somehow  gropes  for  a  hand  to  clutch, 

And  a  chummy  heart  to  understand 

When  you  say,  "Gee  Kid — but  isn't  it  grand!" 

So  I'm  going  back  but  not  before 
I've  strengthened  my  rigging  a  little  more. 
I'm  going  back  on  the  same  old  trip, 
But  when  I  buy  that  long,  pink  strip, 
Folded  and  signed  and  stamped  in  blue, 
if 


I'm  going  to  plank  down  the  price  for  two, 
And  we'll  strike  straight  out  for  the  same  old 

trail 

By  the  canyon's  rim  where  the  wind's  a  gale, 
And  I  have  a  feeling  that  somehow  she 
Will  likely  be  standing  close  to  me, 
And  I'll  probably  say  as  I  take  her  hand, 
"Gee  Kid,  just  look — but  isn't  it  grand!" 

Oh,  the  times  I've  pictured  her  hair  blown  free, 
On  a  little  cayuse  by  the  side  of  me, 
Jogging  along  through  the  yellow  dirt 
With  a  slouch  of  a  hat  and  a  khaki  skirt, 
And  ever  that  ringing  laugh  of  hers 
Echoing  up  through  the  arching  firs. 

And  that's  just  one  of  the  things  I  see 
When  I'm  with  the  Kid  and  the  Kid's  with  me ; 
And  though  she's  a  treat  in  her  city  clothes, 
With  her  dainty  feet  and  her  silken  hose, 
What  tickles  me  most  is  just  to  stare 
And  think  how  she'll  look  when  she  gets  out 
there. 

Yet  should  it  chance  that  I  had  to  stick 
In  this  walled  corral  of  iron  and  brick, 
19 


I  fancy  we'd  still  find  joy  o'  nights 

While    the    moon    swung   low    o'er    the    Jersey 

heights, 

Or  something  sublime  if  we  should  go 
To  Central  Park  or  a  movie  show — 
For  it's  all  in  a  life — the  varied  thrills, 
Streets  of  the  city  or  western  hills. 
It's  all  or  nothing  according  to 
The  pulsing  something  that  answers   you 
From  the  chummy  heart  and  the  little  hand, 
When  you  say,  "Gee  Kid — but  isn't  it  grand !" 


Nowhere  is  there  a  more  diligent  worker  than  the 
orchard  man  of  the  North  West,  unless  it  is  the  wife 
of  the  orchard  man  of  the  North  West.  He  works 
so  hard  and  becomes  so  soul-wearied  that  sometimes 
a  kind  of  thoughtlessness  sets  in  that  is  hard  to  dis 
tinguish  from  neglect,  that  slowly  crushes  out  finer  feel 
ings  until  the  beautiful  and  the  heroic  have  become 
a  commonplace  thing. 

AN   ORCHARD   MAN'S   WIFE 

From  the  far  away  East  she  followed  him 
Toward  the  golden  dusk  of  the  vast  world's  rim. 
He  gave  her  his  name  and  she  gave  her  life, 
And  they  journeyed  forth,  the  man  and  his  wife. 
Where  the  yellow  pines  and  the  white  firs  grow, 
Where  the  lone  peaks  lift  their  eternal  snow 
Through  drifting  clouds  to  the  great  blue  dome, 
They  took  some  land  and  they  called  it  "home." 
And  they  gave  their  days  to  the  ceaseless  toil 
Which  man  must  pay  to  the  master  soil; 
The  woman  at  home,  the  man  in  the  field, 
Awaiting  the  years  of  the  golden  yield. 
Labored  the  man  till  the  fading  light, 
Labored  the  woman  on  into  the  night. 
And  the  slender  hands  grew  thick  and  hard, 
And    the    white    skin    dark    and    rough    and 

scarred — 

The  hands  of  the  woman  who  followed  him 
Toward  the  golden  dusk  of  the  vast  world's  rim. 


And  she  bore  him  children,  girl  and  boy, 
Doubling  her  care  and  doubling  her  joy, 
Stinting  along  in  that  wonderful  wise, 
Counting  no  labour  a  sacrifice, 
Cheering  the  man  when  his  courage  swayed, 
When  he  lost  his  grip  and  grew  afraid, 
Bearing  up  often  'neath  heart  of  lead 
When  better  fitted  to  be  abed. 

Man  of  the  field,  is  the  likeness  true, 

Does  the  woman  of  toil  belong  to  you? 

The  woman  who  gave  up  all  and  went 

Across  the  breadth  of  a  continent 

To  be  a  part  of  the  general  plan 

That  makes  up  the  dream  of  the  orchard  man — 

A    comfortable    sort    of   amiable    chattel 

Along  with  his  trees  and  barn  and  cattle, 

A  splendid  cook  and  mender  of  clothes 

And  bracer  of  souls  when  the  wrong  wind  blows  ? 

Weary  are  you  when  the  day  is  through, 
But  what  of  another  who's  weary,  too? 
Does  the  day  of  a  man  o'ershadow  quite 
A  woman's  day  and  a  woman's  night, 
The  countless  steps  that  must  be  made 
Each  fleeting  hour,  the  tasks  essayed, 
The  strain  of  simply  working  away 


Through  the  constant  din  of  children's  play, 
For  dear  as  they  are,  these  girls  and  boys, 
The  noise  of  a  child  is  still  a  noise? 

Have    you    reached    the    place    where    you're 

satisfied 
When    you're    dead    dog-tired,    to    see    things 

slide- 
Letting  her  do  what  she  has  to  do, 
Hither  and  thither,  waiting  on  you  ? 
Or  are  you  there  with  a  ready  hand 
To  do  what  the  moment  may  demand, 
Easing  her  hour  and  making  less 
The  pain  of  her  with  your  thoughtfulness  ? 

Man  of  the  field,  do  you  know  the  worth 
Of  that  priceless  gift  of  all  the  earth — 
The  love  forsaking  home  and  friend 
To  be  with  you  till  the  journey's  end? 
Then  look  you  well  and  harbor  a  care 
For  the  wearied  one  whose  heart  you  wear. 
Forget  her  not  for  today  and  see 
You  forget  her  not  in  the  days  to  be, 
When  the  long,  long  lane  has  had  its  turn 
And  the  wage  has  come  that  she  helped  you 
earn. 


The  little  yellow  man  is  a  factor  of  the  North 
West  which  must  be  reckoned  with.  There  is  some 
truth  in  the  assertion  that  he  is  oftimes  disliked,  not 
by  reason  of  his  vices  but  for  his  virtues.  It  is  the  Jap 
whose  miraculously  groomed  strawberry  rows  call  to  you 
from  the  roadway,  whose  cabbage  plants  look  as  if  they 
had  been  dusted  off  each  morning,  and  whose  infinite 
and  loving  care  have  enabled  him  to  foster  growth 
against  a  host  of  threatening  ills.  He  is  wise  to  a 
degree.  When  he  buys  his  seed  this  Spring,  he  does  not 
go  strong  on  the  crops  which  were  scarce  last  year,  for 
that  is  just  what  everyone  else  will  do.  He  plants 
what  was  plenty  and  cheap  last  year,  for  that  will 
surely  be  neglected  now.  Almost  every  white-man's 
orchard  has  its  Jap.  The  following  rhyme  is  dedicated 
to  one  Jap  in  particular. 

KA-ICHI 


Have  you  heard  of  our  little  Ka-ichi? 

Ka-ich  Watanuki  the  Jap? 
He's  hoeing  down  there  in  the  berries 

In  khaki  and  white  canvas  cap. 
Ka-ich  of  the  pompadour  bristles, 

Ka-ich  of  the  red  and  tan  skin, 
Ka-ichi  the  human  machine-man, 

The  machine  with  the  always-on  grin. 

All  the  long  summer  through  he's  been  at  it, 
And  the  plunk  of  his  hoe's  never  done, 

Like  the  gleam  of  a  heliograph 
Is  the  glint  of  his  cap  in  the  sun. 


The  chores  that  Ka-ich  gets  away  with, 

And  the  unnumbered  stunts  he  puts  through — 

Well,  it  tickles  you  silly  to  find 

A  thing  now  and  then  he  can't  do. 

But  whether  it's  picking  or  packing, 

Dish-washing  or  doct'ring  the  pup, 
Or  splitting  the  kindling  or  scrubbing, 

Unhitching  or  harnessing  up, 
Or  cutting  your  hair — he  can  do  it — 

Or  helping  to  get  the  hay  in, 
Just  you  say,  "Well  how  goes  it  Ka-ichi?" 

And  he's  there  with  the  always-on  grin. 

And  that  Jap,  would  you  think  it,  this  Spring 

Went  shares  on  a  crop  near  Mount  Hood, 
And  when  the  returns  came  along, 

He  was  eight  hundred  bucks  to  the  good. 
Gets  his  papers  each  day  in  the  mail, 

"Nippon  Herald"  and  "Hood  River  Star," 
And  is  just  as  well  up  on  the  war  news 

As  most  of  the  rest  of  us  are. 

Gets  his  letters,  his  calls  on  the  phone; 

In  short,  Watanuki  &  Co 
Is  about  the  dogondest  successful 

Corporation  round  here  that  I  know. 
•*•<•> 


And  we  treat  him  with  proper  respect, 
As  a  shining  scion  of  his  race, 

'Gainst  the  time  when  our  little  Ka-ichi 
Will  be  bossing  the  Ka-ichi  place. 

Fact  is,  if  this  ranch  keeps  on  going 

Behind  like  it's  done,  and  the  thrifty 
Ka-ich  on  his  rice  keeps  progressing 

And  salting  each  month  a  cold  fifty, 
Well !  a  telescope  wouldn't  be  needed 

Or  a  very  unusual  long  head, 
To  see  where  yours  truly  quits  ranching 

To  work  for  the  Jap  there  instead. 


A   DRY   MOOLY   IN    STRAWBERRY 
TIME 

Picture  a  place  where  the  strawberries  grow 

Acre  on  acre  and  row  upon  row; 
Picture   a    meadow   all   carpeted    over 

With    clover,    just    bobbing    and    beautiful 

clover ; 
Picture  a  pedigreed  Alderny  beast 

Browsing  all  day  on  the  honey-topped  feast; 
Picture  a  mother  who's  willing   to  bake 

Short-cake  that  only  a  mother  can  make — 
Then  answer  me  true  if  it  isn't  a  crime 

To  have  a  dry  mooly  in  strawberry  time. 

In  strawberry  time  when  you  like  to  dream 
Of  pouring  out  cream  in  a  golden  stream, 

Dripping,  and  trickling  and  splashing  down 
Over  a  crust  of  the  richest  brown, 

Into  the  drooly  and  mottled  flood 

Of    short-cake    and    sugar    and    strawberry 
blood. 

Picture  your  having  an  automobile 

In  perfect  condition  except   for  one  wheel; 
Picture  a  motor-boat  built  for  the  race 

Dry-docked  on  Sahara's  unlimited  space; 

17 


Picture  yourself  gotten  up  in  your  best 

And  nowhere  to  go  to  when  once  you  were 

dressed ; 

Picture  a  hammock,  soft  breezes,  a  moon, 
And  no  sighing  mortal  with  whom  you  could 

spoon ; 

Picture  ad  lib — and  the  worst  is  sublime 
Beside  a  dry  mooly  in  strawberry  time. 

In  strawberry  time  when  you  like  to  dream 
Of  pouring  out  cream  in  a  golden  stream, 

Dripping  and  trickling  and  splashing  down 
Over  a  crust  of  the  richest  brown, 

Into  the  drooly  and  mottled  flood 

Of    short-cake    and    sugar    and    strawberry 
blood. 


OUR   NOO   VICTROLIE 

Our  Hank  he  swears  no  joy  compares 

With  our  "bran  noo  victrolie." 
"Wind  up  the  crank"  now  then  says  Hank, 

"Dodblast  yer  melancholic! 
Throw  on  a  log  there,  mind  the  dog  there, 

Now  let  her  blaze  by  Cracky ! 
Then  reach  yer  hand  up  on  yon  stand 

And  hand  me  my  tobaccie." 

"Let's  see,  by  Gee !  what  will  it  be  ? 

Say  somethin'  light  and  airy? 
Put  on  that  long  grand  oprie  song 

By  Faust  and  Cavalieri. 
When  that's  ground  out,  best  look  about 

For  somethin'  sad,  by  Golly ! 
That  dum-de-dum  you  used  to  hum 

From  Huffman's  Barcarollie." 

And  now  our  Gene  starts  the  machine, 
The  records  he  keeps  changing, 

While  Marion's  fixed  the  ones  he's  mixed 
And  needs  her  re-arranging. 

A  yellow  heap  of  dog  asleep, 
A  snorgling  in  his  coma, 
19 


While  Hank  he  breathes  out  floating  wreathes 
Of  "Lucky  Strike"  aroma. 

"And  now  dod  drat  it,  while  yer  at  it, 

Stick  in  that  seven  dollar  'un, 
With  that  sextette  where  they  all  get 

A-stampin'  'round  and  hollerin'. 
Them  other  hits  that  cost  six  bits, 

You  might  mix  in  the  chowder, 
Then  tear  off  one  that's  got  some  fun 

From  that  there  Harry  Lauder. 

"I  tell  you  now  you  must  allow 

It's  going  some  by  Jingoes, 
To  jest  sit  here  and  cock  yer  ear 

And  listen  how  that  thing  goes. 
To  boss  yer  show  right  frum  the  go, 

The  whole  blagoned  caboodle, 
What    strikes  you  most  frum   Hamlet's  ghost 

To  'Palms'  and  'Yankee  Doodle.' 

"To  think  of  all  that  high-toned  gal- 
blamed  crowd  so  proud  and  haughty, 

Like  that  there  Shooman  Hankey  woman, 
Carooso,  Eames  and  Scotti, 

That  never  knew  me — no,  nor  you — 
A  plunkin'  down  and  landin' 


Right  here  by  Gum,  in  our  own  hum 
On  equal  social  standin'. 

"Now  stick  yer  best  in,  Emmy  Destin, 

Them  birds  frum  Pagliaggi, 
Or  somethin'  dreamy  frum  Bohemie; 

Don't  let  it  git  too  draggy. 
And  when  you  git  that  through,  best  quit, 

Heigho,  I  feel  like  dozin' — 
And  one  more  thing,  run  down  that  spring 

Before  you  finish  closin'.  " 


Greatest  of  all  the  trials  with  which  the  orchard 
man  has  to  contend  is  the  little  pocket-gopher.  His 
inroads  are  relentless.  He  is  the  arch-enemy  and  prince 
of  plagues.  Here  and  there  at  irregular  intervals, 
white  rags,  tied  to  the  tops  of  tall  sticks,  wave  among 
the  growing  trees.  Each  marks  the  place  where  a 
gopher  trap  is  set. 

AT  THE   SIGN  OF  THE  WHITE  RAG 

You  little  velvet  Devil  thing, 

And  so  you're  caught  at  last ! 
You  stuck  your  head  into  the  hole 

And  snap !  it  held  you  fast. 
A  muffled  squeak,  a  drop  of  blood, 

One  weak,  convulsive  kick, 
And  o'er  your  grave  the  wind  will  wave 

A  white  rag  on  a  stick. 

Those    tireless    claws    are    stilled    that    delved 

So  deeply  in  the  earth, 
And  once  more  you  will  pass  into 

The  soil  that  gave  you  birth. 
You  did  not  know  the  harm  you  wrought, 

You  lived  and  digged — just  so 
Your  fathers  lived  and  digged  who  died 

Ten  thousand  years  ago. 

You  make  your  tunnels  through  the  ground — 
The  law  of  old  still  stands — 

31 


You  ravish  and  you  undermine 

The  fairest  of  our  lands. 
Yet  I'm  content  the  good  God  knew 

Well  what  he  was  about, 
That  day  he  shaped  the  destiny 

You  blindly  follow  out 

With  all  the  myriad  crawling  things, 

Part  of  his  universe. 
Your  purpose  crossed  with  Man's  and  hence 

It  falls  out  you're  a  curse. 
And  he  will  fight  you,  velvet  thing, 

For  you're  beneath  his  ban, 
And  I,  I  hope  he  wins  because 

It  happens  I'm  a  Man. 

Five  years  of  war  on  every  stretch 

Of  new-cleared  orchard  land, 
Until  each  tree  has  garnered  strength 

And  sinews  to  withstand; 
Five  years  of  Hellish  energy 

In  endless  claw-dug  holes, 
Five  years  of  plot  and  counterplot 

And  damning  gopher  souls. 

O'er  every  galleried  battle-field 
A  hundred  rags  will  wave, 

33 


And  one  will  mark  a  steel  trap  set, 

Another  one  a  grave. 
Five  years  of  strife  'twixt  Man  and  Beast, 

A  goodly  price  to  pay, 
And  all  because  each  had  to  live 

According  to  his  way. 


34 


THE  GAMBLERS 

We  cleaned  our  berry  crop  today, 

Just  twenty  crates — no  more. 
Some  packed  out  five  to  each  top  row, 

And  the  bigger  ones  topped  four. 
We  shipped  out  twenty  measly  crates 

Of  Extra  Fancy  brand; 
One  third  the  yield  we  might  have  had 

From  a  fairly  decent  stand. 
(And  the  Lord  knows  how  we  labored  for 

That  fairly  decent  stand.) 

Three  dust-begrimed  and  sun-baked  miles 

They  hauled  those  twenty  crates 
Down  to  the  freight  car  siding  where 

The  fruit  inspector  waits. 
He'll  rip  the  top  from  two  or  three 

And  if  there's  nothing  wrong, 
He'll  be  less  fussy  with  the  rest 

And  pass  the  lot  along. 
(He'll  ease  his  conscience  with  each  rip 

And  pass  the  lot  along.) 

They  ran  a  trifle  small  last  week 

And  the  greens  he  said  must  stop; 
It's  hard  to  get  a  perfect  pack 

35 


Out  of  a  Jonah  crop. 
And  down  there  in  Chicago 

The  middle-man  will  sell 
The  berries  we  shipped  out  from  here, 

To  a  bang-up,  swell  hotel. 
(The  crates  we  filled  with  fours  and  fives, 

To  a  bang-up,  swell  hotel.) 

There  some  rich  chap  who  deals  in  stocks 

Will  very  probably  pay 
The  waiter  most  as  big  a  tip 

As  the  picker  made  all  day, 
For    the    stock-made    man,    though    things    go 
wrong, 

And  best  bets  turn  to  flukes, 
Lives  not  by  dint  of  stint,  but  plays 

The  living  game — de  luxe! 
(Heeds  not  such  trifles  for  he  plays 

The  living  game,  de  luxe!) 

He  risks  his  gold  but  does  not  make 

His  body  take  its  share, 
And  never  plays  a  stake,  I'll  bet, 

Like  those  red  berries  there. 
If  shifting  markets  cost  him  sleep, 

At  least  his  bed  is  warm — 
He  does  not  have  to  watch  all  night 
36 


\ 


To  keep  his  stocks  from  harm. 
(  Watch  through  the  chill,  dark,  dragging  hours 
To  keep  his  stocks  from  harm.) 

He  does  not  have  to  keep  alive 

For  five  nights  on  the  run, 
The  smudge-fires  when  the  frost  hangs  low 

From  dusk  till  rise  of  sun. 
He  does  not  have  to  hoe  for  weeks 

'Neath  light  that  beats  like  flame, 
And  then  find  after  all,  the  frost 

Has  got  there  just  the  same. 
(The  death-winged  frost  with  ice-chilled  breath 

That  got  there  just  the  same.) 

The  frost  that  stunted,  turned  to  core, 

The  fruit  you  hoped  to  save, 
The  fleshless,  seedy,  misshaped  things, 

That  drove  you  like  a  slave. 
The  broken  pledges  of  the  flowers, 

All  fragrant  in  the  breeze, 
In  pollen  time,  so  white  they  bloomed 

Beneath  the  apple  trees. 
(In  pollen  time,  when  rippling  rills 

Flowed  'neath  the  apple  trees.) 

A  gamble  straight,  that's  what  you  take. 
On  yonder  sloping  field 
37 


The  acres  run  about  like  yours, 

But  not  like  yours  the  yield. 
They  shipped  out  sixty  crates  today 

Of  mostly  four-four  rows — 
Just  why  they  didn't  catch  the  nip, 

The  great  Almighty  knows. 
(Why  you're  the  scape-goat,  they  immune, 

The  great  Almighty  knows.) 

The  man  who  deals  in  stocks  and  wears 

His  smart-cut  tailored  suits, 
And  the  man  who  irrigates  his  fields 

In  khaki  and  old  boots, 
Are  gamblers  both,  but  he  who  spends 

His  hours  in  dust  and  mud, 
Stakes  up  against  the  one  man's  gold, 

The  other's  flesh  and  blood. 
(Stakes  up  against  his  life  of  ease 

The  other's  flesh  and  blood.) 


WHEN  FRANCES  BRINGS  HER  VIOLIN 

When  Frances  comes  to  our  house 

We  watch  her  coming  through 
The  trail,  and  know  it's  Frances  for 

She's  always  dressed  in  blue. 
We're  all  so  glad  when  Frances  comes 

And  everyone  stays  in, 
Because  we  know  she's  going  to  bring 

Along  her  violin. 

When  Frances  comes  to  our  house 

We  range  ourselves  around 
On  cushions   or  the  hammock  or 

The  steps  or  on  the  ground. 
And  then  the  stars  they  perch  themselves 

Above  their  favorite  trees, 
The  bats,  expectant,  flutter  round, 

The  crickets  cross  their  knees. 

When  everybody's  fixed  at  last 

And  settled  in  his  place, 
Someone  says   "well!" — then  Frances  takes 

And  opens  up  her  case. 
A  ping,  a  squeak,  a  tightened  creak, 

And  now  beneath  her  chin ; 
Then,  oh,  what  joy  when  Frances  starts 

To  play  the  violin. 

39 


The  "Kerry  Dance"  we  all  so  love! — 

Oh,  sweetly  flowing  air — 
While  rythmic'lly  we  just  can  see 

Her  elbow  bowing  there. 
"Now  Frances  .dear,"  says  Mother  in 

Her  arm-chair  near  the  door, 
"The  'Traumerai'  you  played  last   night 

Do  let  us  have  once  more." 

From  song  to  song,  old  melodies, 

Long  treasured  through  the  years, 
Unfettered  now,  break  forth  anew 

Upon  our  listening  ears. 
Fond  melodies,  dear  memories, 

Hopes  still  of  things  to  be, 
Come  crowding  in  as  Frances  plays 

With  tuneful  witchery. 

To   "Auld  Lang  Syne"   swift  bends   the  bow, 

Sways  now  to  "Old  Madrid," 
Till  Frances  takes  her  violin 

And  softly  shuts  the  lid. 
Then  down  the  trail  we  make  our  way 

By  sage  and  chincapin, 
Beneath  the  stars,  with  Frances  there 

'Long  with  her  violin. 


Fear  of  the  dark — who  has  not  had  it?  The  dark 
is  filled  with  strangeness  and  uncertainty,  the  fear  that 
follows  us  however  loud  we  whistle,  however  fast  we 
walk.  Our  valley  is  a  strangely  fearsome  place;  bunch- 
firs  drooping  with  long,  hairy  growths;  bleached  and 
twisted  bony  snags;  up-rooted  stumps,  burned  and  black, 
with  gorgon-heads  and  sprawling  arms,  and  against 
them  the  bobbing  white  of  elder  and  spirea.  Anon  the 
gloom,  the  pale  of  the  moon,  the  scattered  voices  of  the 
night — is  it  strange  that  the  spirits  of  the  past  should 
linger  here? 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  MULTNOMAH 

There  are  ghosts  in  this  land  of  Multnomah, 

Grotesque  ghosts  and  ghosts  in  their  shrouds, 
There  are  ghosts  in  the  brush  and  the  woodland 

And  ghosts  in  the  swift-moving  clouds. 
In  this  land  of  Multnomah  they're  sleeping, 

They  sleep  while  the  day  is  still  light, 
But  when  the  shades  fall  they  go  creeping, 
Go  stealthily,  eerily  creeping 

Out  into  the  shapes  of  the  night. 

There  are  ghosts  in  this  land  of  Multnomah, 

Gray  witches  on  galloping  nags, 
Fleet-foot  from  the  Kingdom  of  Nowhere 

Sweeping  low  o'er  the  blue  mountain  crags. 
You  can  see  them  bear  on  to  the  Westward, 

Green,  garish  the  sky  is  and  vast 
4* 


Is  the  host  of  the  storm  that  is  nearing, 
With  mutter  and  rumble  is  nearing, 
Till  its  fury  is  spent  in  the  blast. 

There  are  ghosts  in  this  land  of  Multnomah, 

Their  voices  at  night  you  may  tell 
Like  the  creak  of  a  half-fallen  timber 

That  rocks  in  the  fork  where  it  fell. 
Or  you  hark  to  their  far  away  moaning 

As  form  calls  to  form  in  the  gloom, 
Moaning  and  weariful,  beck'ning, 
Tossing  and  swaying  and  beck'ning, 

Like  the  dead  who  have  gone  to  their  doom. 

There  are  ghosts  in  this  land  of  Multnomah, 

Black,  grimacing  heads  between  pale 
Diabolical  skulls  that  go  bobbing 

Along  on  both  sides  of  the  trail. 
There  were  stumps  and  white  blooms  of  spirea 

Just  there  where  the  katydid  sings, 
But  they  never  are  there  in  the  star-time 
And  the  path  that  I  take  in  the  star-time 

Is  fraught  with  most  horrible  things. 

There  are  ghosts  in  this  land  of  Multnomah, 
That  tangle  of  mummyfied  hair, 

4* 


How  it  droops  from  the  spectre  that  wears  it, 
Bent  low  like  a  wraith  in  despair. 

There's  a  fir  that  stands  there  in  the  day-time 
With  bright  clumps  of  green  in  the  sun, 

But  the  spirit  that  lurks  in  the  moonlight, 

In  the  haunting  and  dubious  moonlight, 
Is  always  a  sorrowful  one. 

There  are  ghosts  in  this  land  of  Multnomah, 

And  the  living  know  not  of  their  graves ; 
Ghosts  of  the  tortured,  of  chieftains, 

Of  infants  and  terrible  braves. 
But  I'm  glad  there  are  ghosts  in  this  country, 

Although  I  don't  like  them  until 
I  can  sit  by  our  comfortable  fireside, 
By  our  crackling  and  cheery,  old  fireside 

And  shake  off  the  creep  and  the  chill. 


43 


THE  BUZZARDS 

Behind  our  barn  a  fir  wood  grows 

And  the  trees  are  straight  and  tall, 
And   there's   one  that's   dead   and  seared   and 
black 

Looks  down  upon  them  all ; 
And  every  day  when  the  sun  sinks  low 

Behind  the  canyon's  rim, 
Five  buzzards  come  and  settle  down 

Upon  its  topmost  limb. 

And  you  hear  no  sound  as  they  circle  'round, 

Save  the  song  of  the  evening  breeze, 
As  they  sink  to  rest  'neath  the  canyon's  crest 

And  over  the  tall  fir  trees. 
Since  break  of  day  they've  been  away 

Far  over  the  eastern  range, 
Where  they  found  a  dog  dead  by  a  log — 

He  died  of  the  scurvy  mange. 

Sometimes  you  look  at  the  black  fir  bough 

And  you  see  but  one  or  two, 
The  rest  they  lag  by  a  range  cow's  corpse — 

For  a  month  they've  picked  it  through. 
But  they'll  be  back  e'er  night  has  come, 

To  watch  from  their  black  fir  branch — 


For  nine  pigs  feed  from  the  old  white  sow 
Down  there  upon  the  ranch. 

And  the  dying  sun,  it  shows  each  one 

With  a  head  all  gory  bright, 
As  they  tip  and  lurch  on  their  lofty  perch 

In  the  glow  of  the  yellow  light. 
Till  over  all,  a  dark'ning  pall, 

The  evening  shadows  lie, 
And  through  the  gloom  you  see  them  still, 

Gaunt  spectres  'gainst  the  sky. 


45 


CEDRIC 

In  the  tops  of  our  whispering  fir  trees 

Down  there  at  the  edge  of  our  lot, 
I  am  sure  there  must  be  an  asylum 

For  the  bird  folk  whose  minds  are  distraught. 
From  each  throat  some  fantastic  obsession 

Rings  abroad  with  incessant  refrain 
In  a  way  that  now  charms  and  now  thrills  you 

With  the  plaint  of  a  wee,  feathered  brain. 

There  is  one  who  calls  ever  for  "Cedric," 

Calls  for  "Cedric"  the  long  summer  day, 
Till  the  soul  of  you  grieves  for  the  singer 

Who  could  voice  such  a  sorrowful  lay. 
And  who  is  the  "Cedric"  you  wonder, 

Whom  the  lady  laments  in  her  song? 
Did  he  die  like  a  knight  in  the  tourney, 

Die  striving  to  right  a  foul  wrong? 

Was  he  slain  in  some  woodland  arena 

In  the  shades  of  a  far  away  dell, 
While  the  blood  on  his  gay  little  breastplate 

Trickled  red  on  the  moss  where  he  fell? 
Now  the  song  of  the  singer  is  broken, 

And  "I  did  it,  I  did  it"  I  hear, 
46 


In  the  tops  of  our  fir  boughs,  "I  did  it" 
Rings  wildly,  hysterically,  clear. 

'Tis  the  lilt  of  a  soul  that's  done  murder 

And  he  utters  his  desolate  cry 
In  the  hope  he  may  find  absolution 

By  unburd'ning  his  heart  to  the  sky. 
Could  it  be  that  the  one  who  slew  "Cedric" 

In  that  unhappy  moment  was  he, 
In  the  shadowy,  green- vaulted  chambers 

Up  there  in  the  top  of  our  tree? 


THE  LAST  STAND 

Where   the  woodlands  halt  on  their  mountain 
march 

And  stand  by  their  steep  defiles, 
Where  their  stalwart  chieftains  call  their  truce 

And  rest  on  their  granite  piles ; 
Where  the  ice-born  rivers  start  to  flow 

Toward  the  maw  of  the  hungry  sea, 
The  outposts  of  the  timber  grow — 

The  clan  of  the  dwarf  pine  tree. 

With  their  roots  entrenched  in  the  creviced  rock 

And  their  limbs  worn  white  and  bare, 
They've  forged  as  near  the  eternal  snows 

As  a  thing  that  grows  may  dare. 
And  they've  pitched  their  camp  for  their  last 
long  stand 

And  they've  flung  their  challenge  wide, 
To  the  blasts  that  wrench  and  the  frosts  that 
freeze, 

Nor  quarter  have  they  cried. 

And  their  years  are  told  by  the  centuries 

Till  you  see  their  bleached  bones  lie 
'Midst  the  alpine  flowers  when  the  Spring  has 
come, 

48 


All  pink  in  the  western  sky. 
And  the  Winter  winds  will  sing  their  dirge, 

Whom  they  battled  fair  in  life, 
While  their  comrades  still  will  twist  and  toss 

In  the  threes  of  their  endless  strife. 


49 


When  the  deep  snows  have  melted  and  the  earth 
is  warmed  with  the  breath  of  Spring,  the  strawberry 
fields  take  on  their  stripes  of  brilliant  green.  Anon 
they  are  white  with  blossoms  and  the  air  is  heavy  with 
their  fragrance;  winds  and  bees  are  diligent  bearing 
the  pollen  from  plant  to  plant.  It  is  the  promise  time 
of  the  blossomy  earth.  For  these  Spring  days  of  plenty 
have  they  been  tilled  and  watered  and  tilled  again  the 
long,  long  summer  through.  Our  valley  is  awake  with 
new  life.  Camp-fires  blaze  in  the  timber,  there  are 
ripples  of  laughter  across  the  clearing.  From  the  towns 
along  the  river  they  have  come  to  our  valley  for  a 
holiday,  the  glomer  boys  and  girls — girls  who  scorn  not 
overalls  nor  sun  nor  God's  free  air. 


THE  GLOMERS 

Now  do  you  know  what  glomers  are? 

Well,  spare  your  idle  guesses, 

For  glomers  may  wear  overalls 

And  glomers  may  wear  dresses. 

Some  glomers'  cheeks  are  pink  and  soft, 

Some  rough  and  tough  and  tan, 

And  the  overalls  a  glomer  wears 

Don't  always  make  the  man. 

For  glomers  may  be  Jims  or  Jacks, 

Or  Berthas,  Janes  or  Marys, 

And  all  the  work  a  glomer  does 

Is  just  to  glom  the  berries. 

Now  berries  may  be  glomed — that's  yanked- 

By  bending  till  your  back 


Gets  warped  up  like  a  pretzel  and 
Begins  to  creak  and  crack; 
Or  by  the  hunker  method  with 
Your  knees  stuck  way  down  in 
The  earth  until  your  knee-pans  seem 
Projecting  through  your  skin; 
Or  with  the  cris-cross  squat  and  lean 
You  hump  along  the  rows, 
But  whatsoever  way  you  try, 
You  quickly  change  your  pose. 
Then  with  your  loaded  carrier 
You  shift  your  low  estate, 
Assemble  all  your  twisted  parts 
And  try  to  stand  up  straight. 
Then  hie  you  to  the  packing  house 
Where  Dots,  Irenes  and  Nancys 
Assort  the  "culls"  and  "snappers"  from 
The  "plain"  and  "extra-fancy's." 
And  when  you've  had  your  ticket  punched, 
You  know  at  all  events, 
Although  you're  wreckefl  beyond  repair, 
You've  made  your  seven  cents. 
So  much  for  glomers  in  the  day 
And  so  much  for  their  troubles ! 
When  evening  comes  a  glomer's  woes 
Are  mostly  empty  bubbles. 
S' 


And  like  their  woes,  a  glomer's  clothes 

Are  doffed  and  donned  at  will, 

And  smocks  give  way  to  dainty  frocks 

For  ranchmen,  George  and  Bill, 

Which  names  of  course  as  you  will  see 

Are  used  for  rhyme's  propriety, 

And  signify  all  ranchmen   who 

Enjoy  glom-maid  society. 

For  some  glom-maids  may  comely  be, 

And  homely  some,  though  witty — 

And  ranchmen  should  not  choosers  be 

So  far  out  from  the  city. 

A  mandolin,  a  crackling  fire, 

A  voice  that's  fairly  mellow, 

Are  not  to  be  turned  down,  I  guess, 

By  any  rancher  fellow. 

So  welcome  to  you,  glomer  folk, 

Good  scouts  and  bully  pals, 

And  whether  you're  from  Portland 

Or  from  Salem  or  the  Dalles, 

It's  our  valley  that's  the  gladder 

When  the  berry  time  is  on, 

And  lots  lonesomer  and  sadder 

When  the  glomer  folk  have  gone. 


WHEN  MOUNTAIN   STREAMS  ARE 
WHITE  WITH  SNOW 

Who  knows  where  all  the  brook  trout  go 

When  mountain  streams  are  white  with   snow, 

The  mountain  streams  whose  frozen  rills 

Lie  snuggled  in  our  canyon  hills? 

When  little  boys  are  snug  in  bed, 

And  stars  are  twinkling  over  head, 

I  guess  the  fishes  sleep  and  dream 

Way  down  below  the  frozen  stream, 

And  dream  all  night  and  dream  all  day 

When  little  boys  are  hard  at  play. 

Till  when  o'er  hills  the  Spring  has  crept, 

They  wake  and  yawn,  "Why  how  we've  slept." 

And  then  they  scamper  round  and  scoot 

From  rock  to  rock  and  root  to  root, 

And  snap  the  blue-bugs  one  by  one 

That  float  above  them  in  the  sun; 

And  all  because  I  guess,  perhaps, 

They've  had  such  fine  and  dandy  naps. 


53 


DAYS  OF  THE  YEAR 

The  colors  I  love  are  as  sands  of  the  sea. 

But  these  are  a  few  that  are  dear  to  me: 

The  green  of  the  moon  as  it  climbs  on  high 

At  the  end  of  the  day  through  a  lavender  sky; 

The  cliffs  of  our  canyon  all  ablaze 

With  copper  and  gold  in  the  sun's  last  rays, 

That  turn  to  a  shimmering  pink  the  rills 

In  the  wet,  brown  soil  of  our  strawberry  hills ; 

The  pale  ash-white  of  the  dead,  ghost  pines, 

The  orange  and  amber  of  maple  vines, 

The  purple  of  lupin — and  back  of  all 

The  wonderful  haze  of  a  canyon  wall. 

The  green  of  an  old  frog  pond  I  love, 

Glimpsing  the  blue  from  the  sky  above; 

The  flash  that  is  flung  from  golden  sheaves 

And  the  amethyst  glow  of  cabbage  leaves; 

The  rustle  of  silver  when  poplars  shake 

And  the  myriad  hues  of  a  coiling  snake. 

The  sounds  that  I  love  are  as  days  in  the  year, 
But  these  are  a  few  that  I  joy  to  hear: 
The  song  of  the  flume  as  it  ceaselessly  sings, 
The  whirr  and  the  flutter  of  pheasants'  wings ; 
The  softly-voiced  sigh  that  just  barely  tells  half 
Of  the  mother-cow's  love  for  her  newly  born  calf ; 
54 


The  peep  of  a  chick  as  it  pecks  away 
Through  its  shell-walled  home  to  the  light  of 

day; 

The  infinite  peace  of  a  tabby's  purr, 
The  chunk  of  the  ax  driving  home  in  the  fir, 
The  split  and  the  crackling,  the  deaf'ning  sound 
Of  the  echoing  crash  when  it  hits  the  ground. 

The  odours  I  love  are  as  drops  in  a  well, 
But  these  are  a  few  that  I  joy  to  smell: 
The  elders  that  bob  at  the  turn  of  our  lane, 
The  mint  by  the  meadow-path  after  a  rain; 
The  raspberries  dangling  red-ripe  in  the  sun, 
The  flowers  tame  or  wild,  are  a  joy  every  one; 
The  incense  of  balsam,  of  new  earth  up-turned, 
The  smoke  in  the  night-wind  when  pitch  stumps 
are  burned. 

Color  and  sound  and  sense  of  smell, 
All  in  a  world  I  love  right  well; 
Morning  or  evening,  moon  or  sun, 
Days  of  the  year  till  the  year  is  run. 


55 


OBSERVATIONS 

Last  Sunday  week  when  Brown's  old  mare 

Got  brain-storm  near  the  church  down  there, 

And  broke  three  dozen  new-laid  eggs 

And  one  of  Mrs.  Julia's  legs, 

And  in  a  quite  unconscious  state 

They  laid  her  down  before  the  grate 

Of  Brigg's  Hotel, 

Our  Jim  says:  "Well—" 

That  is  as  soon  as  he  had  heard 

The  news  of  how  the  thing  occurred, 

"I  don't  remember  havin'  seen 

A  place  where  I'd  a  rather  been 

Unconscious  in,  than — well ! 

In  Brigg's  Hotel!" 

When  one  of  those  big  Whoop-mobiles 
Came  rippin'  gulches  with  its  wheels 
Down  'round  our  lane  and  tried  to  scare 
Our  heifer  calf  a  layin'  there, 
Which  failin'  in,  they  had  to  switch, 
A  landin'  in  a  two-foot  ditch, 
Our  Jim  came  saunterin*  round  that  way 
In  time  to  hear  the  woman  say : 
"Of  all  outrageous  things  to  be 

56 


Delayed  by  such  stupidity; 

For  cattle  to  be  lying  there 

Upon  a  public  thoroughfare — 

You  ought  to  be  ashamed."    Well  Jim, 

He  let  her  splutter  on  at  him, 

Until  he  'lowed  the  time  was  ripe 

And  she'd  'bout  reached  her  exhaust  pipe, 

Then  with  a  quiet  sort  of  smile, 

Though  he  was  tryin'  hard  the  while 

To  keep  from  bustin'  in  a  laugh, 

"Why  don't  you  tell  that  to  the  calf?" 

Once  when  a  specialist  was  sent 

A  lecturin'   for  the  government, 

One  night  down  there  in  Parkdale  Hall, 

In  his  deducin,'  he  let  fall 

A  statement  how  there  had  been  found 

Some  wiggly  germs  beneath  the  ground, 

So  small,  that  if  placed  end  to  end, 

'Twould  take  ten  thousand  to  extend 

One  inch — "Perhaps !"  says  Jim  when  they 

Were  talkin'  'bout  the  thing  next  day, 

"But  how  the  Heck  with  all  their  squirms, 

They  get  ten  thousand  wiggly  worms 

As  small  as  that,  to  hold  right  still 

And  stiff — and  end  to  end  until 


57 


They're  measured  up,  well  now  I  think,' 
Says  Jim,  a  handin'  me  the  wink, 
"That  any  man  who'll  swallow  drool 
Like  that's  a  fool." 


Old  as  is  the  child  of  man,  equally  old  is  the  im 
aginary  playmate,  that  marvelously  adjustable  com 
panion  of  our  youthful  days.  Play-fellow  John  was 
the  constant  chum  for  over  two  years  of  a  real  little 
boy  who  lived  on  the  slopes  of  Mount  Hood,  a  land 
where  the  waving  pines  are  the  masts  of  ships  and  all 
things  else  are  built  of  the  empty  powder  boxes  which 
the  woodsmen  have  left  behind  them. 

PLAY-FELLOW  JOHN 

In  a  vine-covered  cabin  on  top  of  our  hill 

Lives  a  dear  little  boy  whom  I  know, 
And  his  wonderland  lies  by  the  banks  of  a  rill 

Where  the  poppies  and  paint-brushes  grow. 
And  his  eyes  are  the  blue  of  the  lupin,  new 
blown, 

And  his  face  is  the  freshness  of  dawn, 
As   he  plays   all  the  hours   of  the  day  there 
alone — 

Except  for  his  play-fellow  John. 

He's  the  captain   today   on   a  wonderful  trip, 

Is  John,  as  they  scud  to  the  breeze, 
While  the  little  boy  pilots  the  powder  box  ship 

With  John  through  the  uncharted  seas. 
Tomorrow  it's  toot !  and  a  loud  choo-chi-choo ! 

For  the  engineer  John,  he  is  late, 
As  the  China  Hill  Lightning  Express  whizzes 
through 

59 


With  its  powder  box  cars  full  of  freight. 

And,  oh,  he's  so  brave  that  it's  always  all  right 

To  go  out  with  John  anywhere — 
He   killed   fifty-nine   cougars    and   coyotes   last 
night 

And  one  great,  big,  brown  grizzly  bear. 
There  are  elephants  there  and  crocodiles,  too, 

And,  the  bear-skin  he  hung  on  the  wall, 
And  someday  the  boy  with  the  two  eyes  of  blue 

And  John  will  go  after  them  all. 

There  are  moments  when  John  is  just  endlessly 
old 

And  almost  as  high  as  a  tree, 
While  the  very  next  day  you  are  like  to  be  told 

He's  as  young! — and  just  up  to  your  knee! 
Sometimes  he  is  married  and  has  a  dear  wife 

With  ninety-three  children  or  more, 
Then  again  he  leads,  oh — just  the  loneliest  life, 

In  a  hole  'neath  the  old  cabin  floor. 

And  there's  never  a  mortal  in  all  the  whole  land 
Who  has  ever  had  one  little  view 

Of  the  protean  John  or  has  taken  his  hand, 
Save  only  the  two  eyes  of  blue. 

And  no  other  mortal  has  ever  yet  heard 
60 


The  sound  of  his  voice — only  he 
Who  can  conjure  him  back  with  a  magical  word 
From  the  shores  o'  Wherever-he-be. 

Still  the  play-fellow  John  I  am  sorry  to  say 

Is  to  blame  for  a  host  of  misdeeds ; 
It  was  John  who  tore  holes  in  some  stockings 

today 
As   they   trudged   through  the   wet,   tangled 

weeds, 
And  when  no  one's  around  save  the  two  eyes  of 

blue 

And  John,  oh,  look  out  for  the  cake ! 
For  the  things  that  poor  John  will  occasionally 

do 
When  he's  hungry,  would  make  your  heart 

ache. 

But  the  play-fellow  John  is  a  royal  good  soul; 

When  you  want  him  he's  always  right  there, 

And  he'll  captain  your  ship  or  he'll  fight — why 

the  role 

Never  matters,  for  John  doesn't  care. 
Oh,  would  that  the  friends  of  the  long  after- 
days, 

When  the  years  of  the  poppies  are  gone, 
Were  as  trusty  and  dear  in  a  legion  of  ways 
As  the  wonderful  play-fellow  John. 
61 


There  is  probably  no  quadruped  so  deservedly 
named  as  the  pig.  Other  people  may  be  pigs  on  occa 
sion,  but  the  quadruped  pig  is  ever  a  pig.  Strangely 
enough,  the  same  instinct  which  prompts  him  to  push 
everyone  else  aside  so  that  he  may  be  first  at  the 
trough,  is  the  instinct  which  prompts  him  to  snuggle 
closest  to  them  when  bed-time  comes — the  instinct  of 
selfish,  piggish  comfort.  When  the  sun  has  set  and  the 
air  grows  cold,  you  will  see  them  sardine-wise,  brood 
and  brood  in  sizable  groups,  snoring  their  way  into 
slumber-pig  land.  Obviously  there  must  be  one  mem 
ber  of  each  group  who  sleeps  next  to  the  outside  world. 
As  the  hours  roll  by  in  the  chill  of  night,  it  starts  to 
dawn  on  this  particular  pig  that  he  is  the  goat.  He 
rebels,  tells  the  family  that  he'd  like  to  get  warm  and 
this  is  where  the  trouble  begins. 

WHEN  THE  OUTSIDE  PIG  GETS  COLD 


When  slumber  shuts  my  wearied  lids 

And  all  the  world's  asnore, 
When  tribulations  are  at  rest, 

And  sleep  is  mine  once  more, 
'Tis  then  my  soul  is  rudely  hurled 

From  Dreamland  towers  of  gold, 
And  the  furies  all  seem  let  loose  when 

The  outside  pig  gets  cold. 

When  the  outside  pig  gets  cold,  it's  shift, 
Move  over,  make  more  space, 

And  give  some  one  who's  nice  and  warm 
The  outside  piggy's  place. 
6» 


It's  shove  and  punch  and  squeal  and  howl, 

But  back  into  the  fold 
The  outside  pig  must   come  because 

The  outside  pig  gets  cold. 

When  the  outside  pig  gets  cold,  good  night! 

For  we've  a  hen-house,  too, 
Where  irate  cackles  join  one  long 

Crescendo  cockledoo, 
Which,  swelling  to  a  symphony 

Upon  the  night  unrolled, 
The  false  dawn  greets,  and  all  because 

The  outside  pig  gets  cold. 

When  the  outside  pig  gets  cold,  cheer  up! 

For  we've  a  barn  out  there, 
Where  thump  and  trample  now  denote 

Two  horses  and  a  mare. 
Again  they  stamp — you  see  'tis  just 

Their  way  to  curse  and  scold — 
For  which  you'd  hardly  blame  them  when 

The  outside  pig  gets  cold. 

When  the  outside  pig  gets  cold,  there's  still 

Within  the  barn  a  cow 
Who's  not  so  neutral  she  can  keep 

Aloof  in  such  a  row. 


So,   gath'ring   all   her   bovine   breath, 

The  lady  now  makes  bold 
To  give  her  mooly-mooly  since 

The  outside  pig  is  cold. 

When  the   outside  pig  gets   cold,  of   course 

With  all  the  rest  agog, 
'Twould  seem  most  strange  came  there  not  forth 

Some  statement  from  our  dog, 
Who  with  reverberating  howl 

Of  mournfulness    unsold, 
Completes  the  anthem  sent  up  when 

The  outside  pig  gets  cold. 

When  the  outside  pig  gets  cold,  'tis  not 

For  me  to  close  my  eyes 
Till  each  performer's  done  his  stunt 

And  all  the  chorus  dies. 
Then  drowsily  I  fade  away, 

Content  that  no  alarm 
Will  wrest  me  from  my  slumbers  while 

The  outside  pig  keeps  warm. 


64 


Many  are  the  phases  of  the  higher  agriculture  which 
seem  to  a  neutral  unfair  in  the  extreme.  Providence 
instills  the  spirit  of  preparedness  into  all  her  creatures. 
Man,  the  high-priest  of  the  new  code,  pronounces  dis 
armament,  and  every  cow  perforce  becomes  a  pacifist. 
There  is  a  de-horning  of  the  innocents,  the  high-priest 
brings  forth  the  caustic,  and  blood  from  the  little 
stumps  runs  freely.  Unfinished  as  a  hornless  cow  may 
look,  it  should  be  remembered  that  neither  she  nor  her 
Creator  had  anything  to  do  with  the  matter  whatso 
ever. 


TOPSY  CALF 

Once  Topsy  our   calf 

Was  only  the  half 

Of  the  size  that  she's  got  to  be  now, 

And  you'd  never   have   dreamed 

From  the  way  that  she   seemed 

That  she'd  one  day  turn  into  a  cow. 

Her  legs  wobbled   so 

For  she  didn't  yet  know 

The  way  you're  intended  to  work   'em, 

Which  depends  more  or   less 

On  the  kind  of  a  stress 

That  the  joints  are  put  to  when  you  jerk  'em. 

Yet  it  wasn't  ten  days 
Till  she  found  out  more  ways 
Of  hoppin'   and  skippin'  and  turnin', 
65 


Than  she  would  have  by  rule 

In  a  regular  school 

In  ten  years  of  diligent  learnin'. 

The  rotary-rip 

And  the  dip-run-and-skip 

And  the  flip-flopsy-topsy-calf  trot — 

'Course  some  she  just  had 

From  her  mother  and  dad, 

But  a  lot  she  worked  out  on  the  spot. 

'Twas  lucky,  Mom  said, 
She  was  born  here  instead 
Of  somewhere  like  China  or  worse, 
Where  a  girl  isn't  worth 
From  the  time  of  her  birth, 
Any  more  than  her  heathen  dad's  curse. 
But  I  guess  though  her  luck 
Must  have  run  quite  amuck 
Of  a  snag  when  her  horns  tried  to  sprout, 
Which  Dad  he  regarded 
Should  both  be  retarded 
And  not  ever  'lowed  to  come  out. 
But  Mom,  she  maintained 
That  horns  was  ordained 
To  grow  up  and  follow  their  bent, 
And  that  if  molested 
They'd  not  be  arrested, 
66 


But  would  grow  where  they  never  was  meant. 

But  Dad  just  the  same 

Stuck  up  for  his  claim 

And   got   out  his    caustic   and   stuff, 

And  rubbed  it  'round  some 

Where  the  horns  was  to  come 

Till  he  guessed  that  he'd  rubbed  'bout  enough. 

So  that's  why  I  go 
Out  each  mornin'  to  know 
If  the  caustic  affected  the  root, 
And  to  see  if  perchance, 
They've  tried  to  advance 
Up  'round  through  the  roof  of  her  snoot. 
For  think  of  how  fierce 
It  would  be  should  they  pierce 
Through  her  nose,  and  how  awf'lly  preposter 
ous, 

If  only  the  half 
Of  our  Topsy  was  calf 
And  the  rest  of  her  roarin'  rhinosterous. 


THE  LITTLE  RUNT 

Say  what  do  you  think,  old  Sophie  our  sow 
Last  Sunday  turned  into  a  mother, 

With  six  little  dandy  fine  daughters  and  just 
One  poor  bantam  runt  of  a  brother. 

And  the  runt  he  got  tucked  in  a  box  by  the  stove 
Where  he  kept  up  his  delicate  squealin', 

While  Mom  told  him  stuff  that  Dad  said  was 

guff 
But  by  rights  it  was  just  mental  healin'. 

Which  is  makin'  you  think  that  you're  sure  goin' 

to  grow 

Up  into  a  fine  pig  or  sow, 
And  no  matter  how  sickly  you're  feelin'  you'll 

quickly 
Be  lots  better  than  you   are  now. 

But  the  treatment  I  guess  somehow  didn't  take 
Or  it  all  was  too  good  to  believe  it, 

Or  else  he  was  maybe  perhaps  such  a  baby 
His  heart  was  too  young  to  receive  it. 

So  we  toted  him  out  in  his  poor  little  box 
And  you  just  could  see  part  of  his  face, 

68 


And  we  buried  him  under  the  crab-apple  tree, 
That  bein'  the  runtiest  place. 

And  a  daughter  got  trampled  on  late  Friday 

night, 

Which  when  you  subtract  from  the  seven, 
Leaves  the  mother  just  five  of  her  folks  still 

alive 
With  a  brother  and  sister  in  heaven. 

So  now  we  keep  hopin'  for  poor  Sophie's  sake 
That  she'll  suffer  no  more  of  fate's  curses, 

Which  if  they  should  come — well  I'll  try  and 

add  some 
More  sad  and  appropriate  verses. 


OUR  MOLLY  COW 

Next  to  our  sow  our  Molly  cow 

Is  the  best  round  our  vicinity. 

Her  pedigree  is  said  to  be 

Of  high-born  bovinity. 

In  pastures   green   she's   mostly   seen, 

Her  fragrant  mouth  all  grassy  chewed, 

Which  mixed  with  mud  she  rolls  to  cud 

In  peace  and  listless  lassitude. 

At  eventide  with  gentle  stride 

And  mangerward  proclivity, 

She  greets  once  more  the  old  barn  door 

And  scene  of  her  nativity. 

Six  quarts  at  least  comes  from  our  beast 

With  swishing-sweet  rapidity, 

Each  morn  and  night,  a  wondrous  sight 

Of  pure  lactile  fluidity. 

How  kindly  now  of  Molly  cow, 
Or  is  it  altruistic  all, 
Her  milk  to  give  that  man  might  live 
And  wax   so   eulogistical? 
Not  so  I  fear  with  Molly  dear, 
Nor  is  her  heart  so  tropical, 
70 


To  munch  away  the  livelong  day 
From  motives  philanthropical. 

She  chews  because  'tis  nature's  laws 
Her  tissues  thus  to  fortify, 
While  any  brute  the  least  astute 
Would  rather  live  than  mortify. 
And  can  you  guess  the  sore  distress, 
Discomfiture  and  jolly  row, 
If  no  one  came  to  draw  that  same 
Sweet,  gushing  milk  from  Molly  cow? 


OUR  DOG 

Next  to  our  sow  and  cow  I  think 
Our  dog  deserves  the  printer's   ink. 
He's  mostly  hound  and  wholly  tan 
And  lives  by  getting  what  he  can, 
But  as  it  takes  most  all  in  sight 
For  sow  Sophia's  appetite, 
What's  left  remaining  round  about 
Is  scarce  enough  to  give  him  gout. 

Yet  were  a  choosing  mine,  somehow 
I'd  rather  be  the  dog  than  sow, 
For  when  Sophia's  turned  to  hide, 
And  ham  and  fat  and  bacon-side, 
Our  dog  will  still  enjoy  his  share 
Of  grub  and  circumambient  air, 
At  night  he  sleeps  before  the  logs, 
Which  same's  denied  to  cows  and  hogs. 
Once  in  a  while  he  bears  a  bone 
Triumphantly  away,  alone. 
(This  he  inters  in  hopes  it  may 
Improve  a  bit  when  more  passe). 

Milk,  butter,  cheese  he  may  not  yield, 
He  can  not  haul  nor  plough  a  field; 
He  can  not  lay  an  egg,  our  dog, 

7* 


Nor  furnish  bristles  like  a  hog; 

No  produce  yet  of  any  sort 

Have  we  derived  from  our  dog  Sport, 

Which  in  the  last  analysis 

Amounts  in  fine  to  simply  this : 

Materially,  we  must  confess 

Our  canine's  utter  uselessness. 

His  value  to  a  large  extent 

Is  purely  one  of  sentiment, 

From  which  we  glean  no  recompense 

In  pecks  or  quarts  or  pounds  or  cents, 

But  something  which  we  all  no  doubt 

Can  better  feel  than  talk  about, 

A  something  speechless,  deep,  that  lies 

Down  there  beneath  those  big  brown  eyes. 

A  something  in  the  way  he'll  come 
And  sort  of  rub  against  you  some, 
Or  settle  on  the  hearthstone  there 
Almost  beneath  your  rocking-chair 
And  let  you  rub  him  from  your  seat 
Just   gently  with  your  stocking  feet. 
Now  and  again  he  thumps  his  tail, 
At  times  a  yelp  with  long-drawn  wail, 
A  subtle  way  he  takes  to  tell 
That  natures  of  the  best  rebel 

73 


When  folks  are  careless  to  the  point 
Or  rocking  on  an  elbow- joint. 

And  thus  it  is  that  day  by  day, 

Our  canine  in  his  fool,  dog  way, 

Awake  maybe  or  p'raps  asleep, 

Without  an  effort  earns  his  keep; 

And  in  the  same  soft  way  I  s'pose, 

With  which  he  rubs  against  your  clothes, 

He  manages  to  sort  of  slide 

Right  up  against  your  heart  inside. 

In  fact  the  more  you  sift  it  out, 

The  more  you  find  that  round  about 

Our  valley  here,  a  purp  just  lives 

With  all  his  purp  perogatives, 

Collies,  airedales,  mongrels,  hounds, 

On  mostly  sentimental  grounds. 

Yet  lest  you  think  that  I  insist 
On  temperaments  that  don't  exist 
'Mongst  folk  who  make  no  outward  show 
Of  inner  things,  suppose  you  go 
To  Lone  Bloke  Ranch.     Then  look  around, 
Ask  what  became  of  the  old  hound — 
The  one  the  youngsters  used  to  haul 
'Round  backwards  by  the  tail,  and  maul; 
With  one  game  leg  and  just  a  fleck 

74 


Of  white  below  his  flabby  neck — 
The  one  they  found  one  morning  dead 
Out  in  the  snow  behind  the  shed. 

Why,  up  there  very  foot  of  ground 
Seems  yearning  for  that  yellow  hound. 
No  bark  through  all  the  livelong  day, 
No  growl  at  night,  nor  deep,  long  bey- 
He's  not  much  mentioned  since  he  went, 
I  guess  you'd  call  it  sentiment. 


75 


MY   COUSIN'S   HOUSE 

My  cousin's  house  has  shiny  floors 

And  slippy  rugs  and  big  glass  doors, 

And  goldfishes  with  wobbly  things 

Hitched  to  their  sides  like  angels'  wings, 

And  paintings  and  big  silver  urns 

And  hanging  baskets  full  of  ferns, 

And  broad  front  stair-ways  where  you  should 

Step  softly  on  the  polished  wood, 

Just  with  your  toes,  and  never  go 

Upon  your  heels — they  dinge  things  so. 

My  cousin's  house  it  has  a  blue 

Nice  outer  room  for  breakfast,  too, 

And  another  bigger  inner 

Room  that's  used  for  lunch  and  dinner. 

And,  oh,  the  vegetables  and  meat — 

You  just  could  eat  and  eat  and  eat! 

Although  you  don't,  because  you  see 

There's  lots  of  things  that  won't  agree, 

Like  cucumbers  with  milk  and  such, 

Which  youngsters'  turns  should  never  touch. 

My  cousin's  house  it  also  hath 
A  guest-room  and  a  private  bath, 
With  crimson  carpets  all  so  clean, 

76 


There's  nothing  dropped  that  isn't  seen. 

And  when  the  window's  raised  at  night, 

See  that  the  curtain's  pinned  back  tight, 

And  when  you  get  up,  look  about 

And  don't  leave  your  pajamas  out, 

And  turn  the  sheets  and  air  the  bed — 

It's  things  like  that  show  how  you're  bred. 

My  cousin's  house  is  mighty  swell 

For  visiting — but  living!     Well, 

I  somehow  think  I'd   rather  strike 

A  place  that's  not  so  perfect  like, 

Where  folks  can  slam  a  little  more 

Or  track  some  mud  or  bang  the  door, 

Commencing,  ending  every  day 

More  in  an  easy-going  way. 

I  guess  there's  just  one  place  like  that — 

Out  where  my  Momsie  Mother's  at. 


77 


WHEN  DAD  GETS  THE  GRUMPS 

When  Dad  gets  the  grumps  I  am  always  so 
scared 

And  I  try  to  think  what  I  have  done, 
If  it's  something  I  did  that  I  shouldn't,  or  if 

I  should  have  but  haven't  begun. 
And    I    prick    up    my    conscience    to    recollect 
whether 

I  watered  the  Alderney  cow, 
Or  day  before  yesterday  was  it,  or  when 

That  I  pitched  down  the  hay  from  the  mow. 

When  Dad  gets  the  grumps  there  is  something 

way  down 

Inside  of  me  starts  up  a  thumpin', 
As  I  think  of  the  carrots  I  should  ought  have 

thinned 

And  wonder  if  that's  why  he's  grumpin*. 
And  my  sins  of  omission,  they  start  poppin*  up 

Like  spooks  as  I  ransack  my  brain, 
And  remember  the  weeds  in  the  beets  and  the 

peas 
And  the  saw  I  left  out  in  the  rain. 

When  Dad  gets  the  grumps  I  am  always  so  glad 
It's  the  pigs  that  have  rooted  the  clover, 


Or  the  horses  have  broke  the  corral  down  once 

more 

And  tramped  the  alfalfa  all  over. 
To   slump   round   for  hours   in   the   gloom   of 

Dad's  grouch, 

And   then   to   once  more  draw   your  breath 
When  you  find  it  ain't  you  is  like  bein'  released 
From  a  dead  certain  sentence  of  death. 

When  Dad  gets  the  grumps  if  he'd  just  stick 
up  flags — 

Like  for  pigs,  well  a  green  one  would  do, 
With  a  white  for  the  horses  and  maybe  a  black 

One  would  suit  well  enough  when  it's  you; 
Instead  of  a  glump,  like  a  song  without  words, 

With  the  soul  of  you  mashed  all  out  flat, 
Unless  perhaps  maybe  you're  lucky  enough 

To  find  in  some  way  where  you're  at. 


79 


CHORES 

Of  the  chores  I  hate  worst,  guess  the  foremost 

and  first 

Is  to  have  to  do  strawberry  pickin'. 
Like  a  hot,  scorchin'  waffle  your  neck  burns  so 

awful, 

With  the  sweat-bugs  all  buzzin'  and  stickin', 
And  your  back  almost  bustin'  when  up  blows 

the  dust  in 

Your  eyes  and  your  ears  and  your  nose  'an 
Then  you  look  at  Mount  Hood  and  just  wish 

that  you  could 
Be  there  where  it's  snowy  and  frozen. 

Still  I'd  rather  pick  berries  than  walk  behind 

Jerry's 

Old  haunches  and  just  cultivate, 
Where  the  sun's  even  hotter  because  you  have 

got  ter 

Move  on  at  a  specified  rate, 
Till  you  barely  can  drag  through  the  dirt,  and 

the  nag 

In  a  cloud  that's  so  thick  you  can't  see, 
Turns  a  corner  kerplunk  and  snap-bang  goes 

the  trunk 

Of  a  nice  little  Gravenstien  tree. 
80 


Still  that's  nothin'  like  to  the  picnic  you  strike 

Washin'  dishes  and  knives  and  forks  till  it's 
'Bout  time  for  the  gruely,  cold  grease  and  the 
drooly 

Burned  pie-pans  and  sauce-pans  and  skillets; 
When  up  through  the  clatter,  a  swishin'  hot 
splatter 

From  the  platter  you've  dropped  calmly  flies 
And  smathers  the  place  in  the  top  of  your  face 

That  was  once  occupied  by  your  eyes. 

I  guess  what  I  like  'bout  the  most  is  to  hike 

Off  to   some  shady  place  where   I'll  be 
Right  there  when  I'm  called  yet  stay  where  I'm 

sprawled, 

Hearin'  them  but  them  not  hearin'  me. 
For  who  knows  if  uncurbed  and  the  mind  un 
disturbed, 

You  might  start  thinkin'  things  when  a  kid, 
Which  would  be  when  worked  out,  just  as  useful 

no  doubt 
As  anything  Edison  did. 


81 


THE  WAY  TO  BE  GOOD 

Now  the  way  to  be  good,  says  my  mother  to  me, 

Is  to  not  keep  resolvin'  too  hard, 
But  watch  a  lot  closer  the  ones  that  you've 

made, 

And  just  have  your  resolver  on  guard. 
And  when  folks   get  you  crazy,  don't   fly  off 

the  bat, 

THEN  resolve  that  you  won't  any  more, 
But  use  all  the  strength  that  the  new  resolve 

takes, 
In  the  first  place  by  not  gettin'  sore. 

She  says  that  folks'  brains  are  constructed  like 

putty, 
Which     whenever    they're     struck     with     a 

thought, 
Get  a  sort  of  a  slit  or  a  dent  where  it  hit 

Whether  anyone  b'lieves  it  or  not — 
And   that  whether  you're    wicked    or   whether 

you're  good, 

Or  whether  you're  both,  mostly  hinges 
On  the  number  and  kind  of  the  thoughts  that 

struck  in 

To  the  places  that's  marked  with  the  dinges. 
it 


She  says   that   the  human  mind's  just  like  a 
house, 

With  Conscience  the  Porter-man  who 
Sits  there  by  the  door  and  only  lets  in 

What  thought-folks  it  pleases  him  to — 
That  he's  just  like  a  servant  and  if  you  don't 
wish 

Your  house  overrun  with  a  mob 
Of  riffraff  and  hoodlums  you'd  better  instruct 

The  Porter  to  tend  to  his  job. 
But  its  wonderful,  ain't  it,  to  think  of  all  that 

Goin'  on  up  inside  of  your  skull — 
Yet  it's  awful-like,  too,  when  it's  all  up  to  you, 

And  you  feel  so  responsible 
For  the   dinges   you  get   and  the  Porter-man 
there,  ^ 

And  the  thought-folks  you  must  entertain, 
That  sometimes  do  you  know  it  just  bothers  me 
so, 

I'm  sorry  I've  got  any  brain. 


MY  GROUCH 

I  like  a  good  grouch  when  I  get  it, 

Sea-deep  and  dark  indigo  blue, 
If  it  wants  to  crawl  round,  why  I  let  it, 

Up  and  down  me  and  all  through  and  through. 

I  like   a  good  grouch  when  it's  grounded 
On  at  least  two  or  three  things  or  more,   , 

With  which  I  can  be  well  surrounded 
And  keep  myself  blame  good  and  sore. 

I  like  a  good  grouch  when  I've  got  it, 
No  chirpy  cheer-up  stuff  for  me, 

It  can  be  just  as  grouchy,  dodrot  it, 
As  ever  it  chooses  to  be. 

I  like  a  good  grouch  when  there's  in  it 
A  something  you  know  by  the  feel, 

Isn't  going  to  wear  off  in  a  minute, 
A  grouch  that  is  steadfast  and  real. 

I  like  a  good  grouch  that'll  grab  me 
And  hold  me  in  thrall  like  a  vice, 

And  when  that  kind  comes  knocking  to  knab  me, 
You  can  bet  it  won't  have  to  knock  twice. 


RHYMES  AND  LIMER  RHYMES 


THE   DOODLEDOO 

Chickens  is  a  funny  thing, 

'Speshlly  a  hen  or  rooster, 
And  don't  do  much  of  anything 

'Cept  just  what   they've  been  used  ter. 

The  fam'ly  name  is  Doodledoo, 
Though  diff'rin'  in  the  prefex — 

By  addin'  Cockle  for  the  hes 
And  Cackle  for  the  she  sex. 

What's  called  a  rooster  doesn't  roost 
One  bit  more  than  the  hen  does, 

Hence  hens  deserve  the  rooster's  name 
As  much  as  rooster  men  does. 

They're  good  to  eat — the  Doodledoos, 

All  'cept  what's  deleterious, 
Like  heads  and  feathers,  feet  and  things, 

Which  eatin'  would  make  serious. 

The  Doodles  is  a  peaceful  race, 

Although  they  do  delight  in 
Raisin'  the  mischief  'round  the  place 

And  squabblin'   some  and  fightin'. 

8* 


GETTIN  BORN 

When  once  a  chic  busts  through  a  egg 

He  gives  three  little  squeals, 
Then  works  out  backwards  through  a  hole 

By  kickin'  with  his  heels. 

Or  maybe  he'll  keep  peckrn'  'round, 
With  now  and  then  some  cursin', 

Until  his  head  pokes  through  and  then 
Comes  all  his  little  person. 

Or  like  as  not  he'll  puff  his  chest, 
A  grunt  and  then  some  kickin* — 

He's  standin'  there  out  in  the  air, 
A  promissory  chicken. 


THE  SAW-FISH 

The  Saw-fish  he,  lives  in  the  sea, 
And  saws  out  Iceberg  Palaces; 

He   works   all   night  by   just  the  light 
Of  Rorie-Borie-Alices. 

Also  by  day — 'tis  just  his  way 

To  show  his  perseverience, 
For  like  a  brick  he's  learned  to  stick 

To  jobs  by  long  experience. 


THE  FISH 

The  Fish  he  is  a  submarine 

In  shiny  coat  of  mail 
And  goes  by  wigglin'  with  his  fins 

And  jerkin'  with  his  tail. 

They're  always   wet  clean   to   the  skins 
Although  they  don't  take  cold, 

Because  the  skins   are  water-proof 
On  both  the  young  and  old. 


«9 


GOLDFISHES 

Most  every  animal  that  grows 
Is  useful  in  some  way  I  s'pose, 
Like  horses,  chickens,  pigs — well  they 
All  earn  their  livin'  in  some  way, 
But  goldfishes  is  made  to  give 
People   trouble   while   they   live, 
Needin'  water  just  like  plants, 
Fresh  each  day  for  sustenance. 
Then  one  he  will  go  and  die, 
Sighin'  first  a  little  sigh, 
Mosyin'  round  the  place  a  while 
With  a  half-dead  sort  of  smile, 
Tryin'  all  the  time  to  keep 
Right-side  upward  in  the  deep. 
Findin'  useless  what  he's  tried, 
He  keels  over  on  his  side, 
Lookin'  downward  with  one  eye 
At  the  home  he's  bid  good-bye; 
Other  looks  up  at  the  new 
Happy  land  he's  goin'  to, 
Where  beside  a  golden  strand 
Swims    a    goldfish    spirit   band. 
If  he's  done  no  wicked  things, 
Fins'll  turn  to  angel  wings, 
Flyin'  round  and  singin'  hymns 
90 


With  the  goldfish  cherubims. 
So  then  when  your  fish  you  see 
Lookin'  dead  as  dead  can  be, 
Don't  be  sorrowful  because 
They  obey  just  nature's  laws — 
Happy   now   for    evermore 
By  that  shiny,  golden  shore. 


9' 


The  limerick  "My  Face"  was  first  published  in 
the  Pittsburgh  "Index"  about  '98,  one  of  a  series,  and 
accompanied  with  a  drawing  of  a  bulldog.  It  was 
reprinted  later  in  a  small  volume  "The  Smile  on  the 
Face  of  the  Tiger"  and  afterwards  in  "The  Home  Book 
of  Verse"  published  by  Henry  Holt.  After  his  nom 
ination  for  the  presidency  it  was  used  on  a  number  of 
occasions  by  Woodrow  Wilson,  at  which  time  it  found 
its  way  into  numerous  papers  and  periodicals  through 
out  the  country.  After  many  vicissitudes  and  having 
been  attributed  to  various  sources,  it  is  here  given  for 
the  first  time  in  some  years  under  its  rightful  author 
ship. 

MY  FACE 


As  a  beauty  I'm  not  a  great  star, 

There  are  others  more  handsome  by  far, 

But  my  face,  I  don't  mind  it, 

Because  I'm  behind  it — 

'Tis  the  folks  in  the  front  that  I  jar. 


THE  CHIN 

The  chin  it   was  made  to  give  trouble, 

Either  pimples  or  dimples  or  stubble, 

While   some   have   the   gall 

To  not  grow  at  all, 

While    others    come   triple   and   double. 


THE  WAIST 

An  imaginary  line  is  the  waist 

Which  seldom  stays  long  where  it's  placed, 

But  ambles  and  skips 

'Twixt    shoulders    and   hips 

According  to  popular  taste. 


THE   HAIR 

The  ways  of  the  hair  they  are  various, 

Its   career  not   a  little  precarious, 

Oftimes   we  may   note 

One  alone  and  remote — 

Then   again   it  may  be  quite   gregarious. 


THE  NECK 

To  the  head  set  on  top  like  a  cobble 
The  neck  gives  its  rotary  wobble. 
Often   fat,  often   thin, 
Sometimes  covered  with  skin, 
It  also  assists  us  to  gobble. 


9-3 


LONGEVITY 

If  I  had  a  turtle's  longevity 

I'd  wed  some  rich  widow  with  brevity, 

And  when  she  had  croaked, 

And  our  souk  were  unyoked, 

Live  on  with  her  wealth  and  my  levity. 


ECONOMY 

If  I  had  a  billy-goat's  turn, 

I  sure  would  economize  some, 

For  I'd  lunch  on  torn  shirt, 

With  worn  shoes  for  dessert, 

And  cut  down  my  board  bill,  by  gum! 


AGILITY 

If  I  had  the  legs  of  a  flea, 

No  traffic  would  e'er  hinder  me, 

For  I'd  just  give  one  hop 

Over  people  and  cop 

And  light  down  where  I  wanted  to  be. 


VEGETARIAN 

When  a  bachelor  maiden  named  Sarah  Anne 
Found  a  fly  on  her  plate,  she  grew  very  an 
gry,  said  she,  "Waiter, 
Here's  meat  with  by  'tater, 
And  I  am  a  strict  vegetarian!" 


A  LIMER-KICK 

If  there's  one  time  in  life  when  I  mutiny, 

'Tis  under  the  head-waiter's  scrutiny — 

Whether  watching  my   manners 

In  peeling  bananas, 

Or  merely  to  see  if  I  loot  any. 


FROM  THE  TURKISH 

Before  the  Right  Rev'rend  McNast, 
Lay  a  turkey  who'd  lived  somewhat  fast- 
"Just  to  think"   said  the  bird, 
"After   all  that's   occurred, 
I'm  to  enter  the  Clergy  at  last!" 


95 


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